Man's Best End

Let’s say your life is measured out by a list:the names and descriptions of all the petsyou’ll ever have, in chronological order.

You might attempt to postpone that final pet,deny death its entry into the little doggie flapin the front door of your karmic house.

But there she is, last on your roster:“Lappy, a female Maltese.”Tail-wagging fluff-toy of mortality,she’ll show up, even if you close downthe pet shops and ban the breeders.An invisible stranger will leave heron your front stoop, wrap her leasharound your doorknob.He won’t even have to knock;you’ll know what’s out there.

Try to escape if it makes you feel better.Go ahead. Run. Hide. Make plans to move away.You’ll be about as effective as those poor bastardswho clawed at the insides of their coffins.Instead of just death, they ended up with sore fingersand then death.

You’ll be helpless against the urgeto open the door. Your willpower, weakon its good days, will be sapped away,like in old movies when the gangster saysto the used-up woman wielding the gun,“Baby, you can’t shoot me.You know you can’t.We’ve cared about each other.”

And just the same way the gun fallsfrom her shaky grasp, your shoulderswill droop as you open the door, and inwill trot Lappy, so small and cute, tappingacross your hardwood floor, you’ll wantto hold her on, well, your lap, and watchthe evening news with the volumeturned down low.